


Memories

by PolarStone



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Childhood, F/M, Sad-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 11:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14331849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PolarStone/pseuds/PolarStone
Summary: They think about their pasts.





	Memories

**Author's Note:**

> A little fic for the FinnRose Week, Day 1: Childhood.  
> [https://finnroseweek.tumblr.com/](url)

He doesn’t remember his childhood.

It dawns on him one day. 

_He doesn’t remember his childhood._

Not what was before, before he was stolen. No faces for his family, no smiles or gentle looks. And not after. There is a fog in his mind where many find nostalgia. When the memories start to clear, to take shape, they are of the same routine that accompanied him for most of his life. ( _get up, get dressed, learn how to fight, learn how to shoot, eat, work, follow orders, go to sleep _)__  
Clarity comes much later, when he is already a man.  
Real clarity is even newer, accompanied by a bloody hand. But sometimes something emerges from the wasteland of his mind: whispers, cloaked by the dark, of stories he can’t recall, and murmurings of songs he has forgotten the tune. Where they come from he doesn’t know.  
He hopes they come from home.  
He fears they are not his own.

____

 

She does remember her childhood.

It doesn’t happen everyday, but sometimes her mind wanders to old memories. 

_She does remember her childhood_. 

She doesn’t want to forget, can’t do that to her parents’ faces, already so discolored by time. But the rest she wants to. The destruction, always so close, looming at the horizon, had made her so afraid. The air had gotten so heavy, it would cling to her clothes and skin, impossible to clean away. The hollow eyes of who had given up, the fiery ones of who would not live much longer, she could still remember.  
And the constant cries, like background music to her daily life.  
She didn’t know real silence until she left.

 

He thinks of what could have been a childhood.

Finds inspiration around himself. Makes up a new one, ~~a fake one~~ , _a good one_. Invents new traditions, thinks about what family stories could have been told, what jokes could have been shared.  
One day he thinks he would have liked picnics, rolling around in the fields, eating till he was content, sleeping under the sun until it was prickling at your skin like needles.  
Yes, he would have liked them.  
There would have been many.

 

She is always taken aback when she remember good things.

A fruit in the market is the same one they had managed to steal, of a bright color neither the air could dull, a sweet taste that was just shy of sour, juice through her fingers and a happy smile. Cracking of fire brings her back when she played by her father’s feet, and he would sing, slowly and softly. Blue flowers on the side of the road, they grew also at home, grew despite everything, in spite of everything.  
Her mother would always bring some home.  
\- _a home always needs flowers_ -, she would say, - _it’s an old tradition_ -.

 

They talk about it, sometimes, during quiet moments. How their lives have been so different, but the feelings are so similar.  
They end up sharing their memories, both good and bad.  
They end up sharing their determination: no one will have their same childhood until they breath.  
And they end up sharing their dreams too.  
\- _It is strange_ -, they think, - _how life goes on, anyway_ -  
And life does go on, and so will they ,  
together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank You for reading :)


End file.
